Over the Rainbow?
by SplendidIsolation
Summary: ‘Does it matter that practically every one we know is happily in couple hood with a few kids hanging off them and a toaster which doesn’t hiccup fire? Of course not!’Join Ginny through her disastrous attempts to find love hopefully! and happiness...
1. And you were there

'_Does it matter that practically every one we know is happily in couple hood with a few kids hanging off them and a toaster which doesn't hiccup fire? Of course not!'_

**Join Ginny through her disastrous attempts to find love, an actual job (one not requiring serious ass-kissing) and happiness. **

**Over the Rainbow?**

**CHAPTER ONE**

_Do you Ginevra Weasley take Severus Snape to be your lawful married Husband?_

_What? God no! _

_And do you Severus Snape-_

_I said no! _

_I now pronounce you man and wife…you may kiss the bride_

_Ew! Get away from me! Somebody help!_

_Come my darling; let us depart to the potion dungeon, where our chemistry is sure to be hot…_

_Arghhhhhhhhhh!_

"Ginny! Ginny wake up! We're running late again," a muffled voice said, sounding stressed. I blearily opened my eyes to find a large lollipop stick complete with floating brown cloud, pulling off my warm covers.

"Do you mind?" I grumbled, grabbing them back and burying myself beneath them. "It's a Saturday Mr. Lollipop man, so leave me alone!"

My head felt like it had been riddled with bullets and those same bullets, were now, very meanly, having a loud ballroom dancing competition on the surface of my poor brain, doing the tango with sadistic enthusiasm.

"Up!" came the voice again as the covers were magicked away. On the now bare surface of the bed, I curled up in a little ball and waved my hand weakly. "Leave me Lolli, I've gone too far, take the men and get out of here. Save yourself!"

"What in the heavens are you talking about, Ginny?" I looked up. The lollipop man had now transformed into a very tired looking Hermione. I groaned and sat up; my body felt like a rag doll that had just ran a marathon, saved the world and baked a cake all in one night.

"Hermione?" I ventured, stretching and rubbing my forehead. "What time is it?"

"8.00," she said frantically, with an expression on her face which seemed to except that I would scream in horror and jump hastily out of the window. Instead I let out a loud sigh.

"Why are you waking me up this early on a weekend?" I moaned childishly and then thinking back on the horrific nightmare I had just experienced, added, "Actually, thanks. You saved me from a night of honeymoon passion with Snape. I seriously think I need help. Dreaming of marrying a dead man, especially one wearing a powder blue tuxedo, can not be good."

Hermione smiled slightly before putting on her stern face. Apparently Ron used to find it strangely appealing. I worry about that boy.

"You do remember what day it is, don't you?" she asked frowning. I was suddenly reminded of all those many, many times when Professor McGonagall would catch me daydreaming in class and announce with thin lips, 'I do believe Mrs Weasley will answer the next question….'

"Obviously," I replied, wondering if Hermione had got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning or whether I had done something wrong. Again. I mean, I forgot to feed Crookshanks _one_ time (ok, four) and she completely flipped. its not even as if that beast is a weakly little kitten or anything, he spends most of the day terrorising the dog next door and sneaking behind the letterbox, awaiting with ready claws for the muggle postman to put his unassuming hands through, and still, _I'm_ the one who gets regular lectures on responsibility.

"It's Saturday morning, hence the need for a lie-in." I continued, wondering why my flatmate/best friend had suddenly forgotten my ritual of the past three years.

"You're joking, right?" Hermione questioned. As I shook my head in confusion (not to be recommended when one has hangover size of Jupiter), I noticed that Hermione wasn't in her usual cat paw pyjamas and fluffy slippers, instead she was dressed rather wonderfully in a red jumper and long black skirt.

"Today is a Tuesday Ginny," she started, talking in an exasperated tone used on the likes of mental patients and disobedient dogs, "making yesterday a Monday, Christmas Eve, in fact."

No, that can't be right, because if it was, then that would mean…oh crap…

"What did I do?" I demanded, panicking and hastily looking around the room. Last night had been the Daily Prophet's Christmas party meaning that I, office dogsbody and expert writer of the obituaries, was 100 guaranteed to have done something a) illegal b) humiliating and c) involving karaoke and pixie dust.

Hermione sniggered (evil cow!) and sat gracefully down on the bed. "Well, you'll be glad to know that it wasn't as bad as last year, remember the incident with the blow-up man doll? I told the twins not to bewitch it to flirt with their poor drunk sister-"

"Please get to the point Hermione!" I pleaded. I'd nearly forgotten about my mistletoe kiss with Lothorio, the rubber hunk.

"Ok," she said, taking pity on me. "There was only mild flirting, Colin Creevy and Mr. Slughorn got the brunt of most of it. Firewhiskey consumption was slightly higher than last year, mostly because Lavender Brown, who we will now call 'the floozy who copped off with George Skeeter in the stationary cupboard' transfigured a chair into a giant bath which you then filled with alcohol and later jumped in. And then…"

I sat listening to my drunken crimes with mild horror and fascination. After sniffing my skimpy black dress (which I must have tumbled into bed in) I am safe in the knowledge that Hermione is telling the truth, something I really wished wasn't true, especially since I was planning on taking the ridiculously expensive dress back to the shop today.

"Ah," I said finally, my cheeks turning slightly pink. "I suppose it could have been worse. At least I know you're fibbing about Slughorn, even in my tipsy state I wouldn't go within fifty yards of that horrid little man. Did I tell you that he groped me in The Leaky Cauldron last week? There I was ordering a drink and the next thing I know, I have his stubby, hairy paws glued on to my arse! His head had to lovingly collide with my handbag for that one."

Hermione put on a look of graveness. "Oh Ginny," she said in a whisper. She reached down under my bed and picked up a pair of shiny gold boxers, which looked like they could double as an Elephant's tent (if Dumbo was into camping, that is) and offered them to me.

"I'm afraid that can now be classed as lively foreplay." She tilted her head in the direction of the kitchen. "He's making Christmas morning eggs, says to ask you how you like them."

This is the point where I let out an ear-piercing scream, grabbed Hermione by the shoulders and wept, all the while sneaking around her head to see if there was any Slughorn shaped movement in the kitchen.

Of course I knew she was joking. Of course! Nobody would be silly enough to believe that I, Ginny Weasley could do _things_ with…I can't even think about it.

"Very funny," I grumbled while I watched Hermione collapse in a fit of extremely childish and unnecessary giggles. I waited for her to stop and waited and waited…

"That's enough now, miss comedienne!" I said in a very Ebenezer Scrooge way before huffing and tossing my hair over my shoulder. (This of course would have worked better if hair hadn't been stuck to scalp in great red tufts, resembling an exploding firework) I haughtily moved to my wardrobe, feeling very dizzy and wondering why the room was spinning around and around.

I collapsed in a heap and began wading through the mound of unwashed clothes, attempting to look for something festive and preferably not made out of black lace or red leather (not that I owned that type of clothing…) Eventually I settled on a pair of worn jeans and a green jumper, which mum said brought out my eyes but really made me look like a giant garden pea. I dressed and pulled a comb through my hair. It got stuck.

"So why do we now own a pair of golden boxers?" I asked Hermione as I attempted to remove the comb. _Ow!_ This would be a lot easier if I could locate my wand. Predictably it had gone missing on the one day I might really need it. Bloody typical!

"Well it's a simply enough story," Hermione answered, now stood by the door. "Certain members of the office decided a little game of truth or dare might liven things up a bit. Naturally, you volunteered to go first and were dared to rip off Slughorn's trousers and pants with your teeth-"

_Kill me. Kill me now. _

"Thankfully you cheated and used your wand. It was really quite funny," Hermione finished with an indulgent smile. Grrrrr…I love her to bits but sometimes she really can be too high and mighty. So what if I screw up once in a while, I'm youngish, I still have my own teeth, its only natural that I feel impelled to do take home old men's pants and shout at my boss (I'll speak about that disaster later)…it's the girly thing to do.

"When can I hear about your party time anecdotes?" I questioned with a pout. Hermione had once again agreed to be my guest for the office party (the invitation had said 'date' but who needs one when there's a best friend handy?) She said that the only reason she was going to attend was to keep an eye on me and make sure I didn't blow up the office, my boss or anything else handy. I had been too grateful at the time to feel offended. I can't remember seeing her (or anything else for that matter) at the party but she must have done _something_ mortifyingly embarrassing, it's only fair after all.

"As much fun as that sounds, I'm afraid there's no time," Hermione answered, glancing at her watch and renewing the anxious expression she was wearing earlier. "We have to be at the Burrow at 8.30 to help your mum with the cooking. She said its best to start early especially considering how many people are coming this year."

Fantastic. I'm about to break into the tap-dance of wild joy any moment…not! I can't believe I forgot about today! The pointed look which had accompanied Hermione's words obviously was meant to indicate a certain somebody who would be arriving for turkey and stuffing today after a five year absence. A certain somebody who fled the country, moved to Tibet and joined the monk hood in order to rid himself of me as a girlfriend. No wonder I'm feeling as giddy as a schoolgirl…

"Harry will be there," Hermione added so pointlessly that I replied with a highly sarcastic, "_Really_? Fancy that!" and added my own slightly mean comment, "So will Ronald, the boy you dumped six months ago, that'll be nice, won't it?"

"No, no it won't," Hermione replied quietly. She had completed bypassed my snippy tone and was now looking extremely troubled, which of course made me feel like an evil, bitter spinster. Hermione had decided to 'take a break' from my brother as she said that they had been stuck in a rut and thought the time off would give commitment freak Ron the incentive to move to the next level and pop the question. She hadn't been banking on Ron, ever the simpleton when it came to matters of the heart, to get the wrong idea and turn to his secretary in solace. That's what you call a case of crossed wires…Of course; Hermione being Hermione was too proud to say anything and so has been moping, understandably, for the last six months. Ron has remained with Lola, the dim American bimbo, who now makes more than just his afternoon coffee.

"God, we're pathetic," I said self-pityingly. Both Hermione and I walked over to the bed and slumped down upon it.

"Could be worse," Hermione spoke wisely.

"Sure could," I agreed brightly, "We are both healthy and have good jobs, well you do, I'm an underpaid wannabe writer, whose closest thing to a professional piece was on the annual man-eating flowers show but still, we are lucky. Who cares that we are 24 and 25 with no boyfriend or anything remotely resembling one? Does it matter that practically every one we know is happily in couple hood with a few kids hanging off them and a toaster which doesn't breathe fire? Of course not! We are clever and…feisty and you know what I always say?" I prompted an increasingly glum looking Hermione.

"Yeah, _'Q. when are men not annoying? A. when they are dead'" _she said, perking up to an almost scary extent (I think she's been at the cooking sherry to calm her nerves.)_ "_You're totally right. I don't need your idiot of a brother, no offence, to be happy. I am the smartest witch in the whole damn Ministry. We will just go to dinner today and smile and laugh and try not to get maimed by your nieces and nephews or turned into a singing baboon by the twins and everything will be fine, fine, fine!"

"Uh huh?" I mumbled doubtfully before lying back on the bed and closing my eyes. If I was to see Harry again then more sleep, even ten minutes, would be needed. (Snape in his blue tux is starting to seem oddly appealing. Desperate? me? Never.)

I was lulled to sleep by Hermione's worryingly calm voice.

"Fine, it'll be fine, all fine, wonderfully fine…"


	2. No Place Like Home

Great Dane size thanks to** - **luckycharms445, Henrietta-Black van der Snape, BEEN, Luna Lovegood8, Vanesa, Blood-Debt and SnowFlakeGinny for reviewing!

**CHAPTER TWO**

**Merry Christmas?**

"Ginny," my mother began tentatively. She had been hovering over my shoulder for the past twenty minutes, offering both cooking and relationship advice in one annoying, buy-one-get-one-free package. So far I had learnt that one must stir gravy anti-clockwise, not to wander off when boiling water (I only went outside for an hour) and that my sure fire way to meet nice men would be 'to smile more'.

"Why don't you have a rest?" she advised pointedly, peering down at the concoction I was avidly mixing in a bowl.

"Why?" I responded, looking proudly at my sure-to-be-delicious cranberry sauce. It really was turning out to be something of a culinary marvel. At first I had been worried; I mean who knew cranberries could turn such a sludgy brown colour? But I had persevered and _voila _forty minutes later I had a dish, which despite its strange lumpy bits, was something to be proud of.

"Well, dear, we both know cooking isn't really your strong suit," my mother said, patting me on the shoulder. I glared indignantly at her. _Not my strong suit? _Pah! I was a kitchen wiz! A dab hand! A chef of the highest skill! There really was no need to mention the infamous incident of 98 (think cabbage wallpaper and exploding carrots) I had come a long way, just last week Hermione had been praising my vegetarian casserole, in truth she had said it was _so_ nice that she would just _have_ to eat it in her bedroom, so to fully enjoy the taste-bud delighting experience. The fact that I had later spotted Crookshanks, the demon-cat, sporting suspiciously gooey whiskers had been completely coincidental I'm sure…

"I thought you wanted us to come at the crack of dawn so we could help with the food?" I grumbled, thinking wistfully of my warm, cosy bed, where, by following the ancient rules of a hangover, I should have spent all day snoozing in.

"I'd hardly call ten o'clock 'the crack of dawn' Ginny," my mother nagged before remembering her aim to get me, her only daughter, out of the kitchen. "Hermione and I have everything covered in here. Why don't you go and wake up Ron, he hasn't even opened his presents yet. I think-" she said, dropping her voice to a whisper, "that he's trying to avoid Hermione. The break-up was ever so hard for him."

My mother had her 'my-little-boy-is-so-sensitive' face on, so I refrained from reminding her that Ronniekins was actually having a rather pleasant time shagging Lola, (the bimbo whose biggest accomplishment had been writing her own name in nursery) and it was in reality, Hermione who rightfully deserved our sympathy. Talking of which, Hermione who had been enlarging the kitchen table, had stopped mid-incantation when Ron's name had been mentioned and was now, staring out of the window looking both angry and anxious.

"Fine. I'll get the lazy git out of his pit," I said resentfully before marching up the stairs and banging on the door. Normally I would have walked right in, wrenched off the duvet and shouted in his ear but since it was Christmas and mostly because I didn't want to risk walking in on something which a sister should never, ever encounter (I don't think I could have faced seeing any of Lola's perfect, un-wobbly flesh, especially since my own, slightly chubby face, had been scoffing mince pies all morning), I decided to be polite and simply bellowed, "Ron! Ron! Get your arse out of bed!"

I heard a grunt and two feet pounding on the floor. Minutes passed, in which I assumed Ron spent titivating his usual scruffy dog appearance into something vaguely human, before he emerged (blessedly alone) and swept me up in a big hug.

"Erm…" I choked out, his arms firm around me. "Rib cage being crushed here!"

"Sorry sis," Ron said deliriously happily, as he continued to squash me for a further minute before finally letting go. "I'm just excited, it is Christmas!"

I stepped back and glared at my _twenty five_ year old brother, who was positively beaming, smiling ear to ear. He was wearing the exact same expression that Hermione had been faking for most of the morning. It was a look of freakish, 'commit-me-to-the-mad-house' glee. I suddenly wondered if it was too late to exchange the unstoppable watch I had brought him for a nice, comfy straightjacket, preferably one with room for Hermione too.

"Right…" I trailed off, turning to walk downstairs. Ron side-stepped in front of me and blurted out, "Is erm, everybody here yet…Charlie, Bill…everybody?"

"Hermione's downstairs," I answered smiling, "with her new boyfriend Ricky. God is he gorgeous! All tanned and muscular, mmm…those muscles, rippling down his stomach. Sorry, I'm drooling just thinking about it." I pretended to fan my face and sneaked a peak at Ron's stricken expression. I know it was an evil thing to do but as his sister it is my sworn duty to taunt him whenever the opportunity strikes.

"I begged, literally down on my knees, for Hermione to agree to share him," I continued in mock-exasperation, "I'd get him on a Tuesday, she'd get him on a Wednesday and so on. The weekends, now they would have been trickier, what with the two of them being horded up in that one little room, with all the windows steaming up…"

"Enough!" Ron cried. "Is he down there right now?" he began angrily, moving towards the stairs. He was doing the puffed up, macho thing I had once seen an ape do in a zoo (after 7-year old Fred had high-jumped the barrier and began eating stray bananas - I knew he should have been given to a pack of wolves to rear)

"Ron," I said through a particularly wicked giggle, "I'm kidding! Good lord, do you fall for anything?"

"I knew you were," Ron said with a face resembling a ripe tomato. "I didn't want to hurt your ego by calling you an immature, annoying cow, who, quite frankly, has very chubby ankles!"

I glared. He glowered. We then smiled, placed our hands on each other shoulders and at the same time, in the same happy, nostalgic tone shouted, "Wrestle!"

"Still fighting," a voice said pleasantly, "It's like I never left."

I'd dreamt about this moment. I would turn around, looking ravishingly beautiful of course, and then he, lovely and repentant, would beg my forgiveness for buggering off and deserting me to the clutches of bad dates with worse breath, and then after a sufficient period of grovelling I would take him back, frostily at first but I'd soon thaw out and we would be deliriously happy. Sound too good to be true? You bet your grandmother it does…

What really happened went a little something like this…

"Harry!" Ron shouted, "Great to see you mate!" He bounded forward ready to embrace his long-lost friend; unfortunately his bounding was slightly happened by the fact his hand was still firmly entangled in my hair.

"Ow!" I screeched, as Ron pulled me forward, momentarily oblivious that he had an angry sister growing out of his arm.

He stopped just in front of Harry and with his spare hand drew him into a manly hug. Mortified, didn't even cover it as I stood squirming in a position far too close to Harry's (gloriously fit) chest and as he, a smile on his face, said wryly to Ron, "I think you've forgotten something, mate."

Ron, the gormless, insensitive idiot, only laughed and roughly pulled his hand from my hair, of which every strand was unspeakably embarrassed.

"When was the last time you washed your hair Ginny?" Ron said jokingly as he pretended to wipe his hands on his trousers.

I meant to let out a low, deadly growl. It came out as a whimper.

As Ron was talking happily to Harry, I stood back and silently stared to see how much he had changed. I looked especially closely for any horrible, oozing warts, bald spots or hairy ears. There was nothing, nada, not a beer belly in sight. He looked absolutely bloody gorgeous. The bastard!

"Ron! Harry's here!" Hermione's excited voice came from downstairs. Ron grinned and rolled his eyes. "I thought I was the slow one!"

"Come on then," Ron said, leading the way downstairs. I stayed still. So did Harry.

"Hello Ginny," he spoke quietly.

_Pitter patter_…went my unruly heart.

"_Oh, greetings stranger, how are those feet of yours? Still tired from stomping all over my soul!" _

"Hello Harry," I breathed. "How are the monks?" I asked, in a classic example of talk before thought.

Harry looked puzzled. "Monks? No idea, never seen one."

Never seen one? But Ron had said the reason he had fled like a yellow bellied coward with tragically bad hair (ok, I added that bit) was so that he could find himself or some other stupid, selfish thing which made abandoning a girlfriend of three years all worth it

I waited for Harry to gallantly fall to his knees and offer an explanation of his whereabouts these past five years. He didn't. Instead he asked the question, all people like me, dreaded.

"So, how've you been?"

_Me? Like chocolate ice cream with strawberries and sprinkles on top! I mean I have no boyfriend, no money and work for a hell bitch who I'm considering spending my meagre savings on hiring a hit man for and how could I forget last night? when according to Hermione, I had lustfully asked Colin Creevy if he would care to partake in a flash dance of flesh! But other than that I've been…_

"Great! Work is great! Life is great! Everything is, y'know, great!" I replied with an overenthusiastic hand movement which caused a picture to crash dramatically of the wall.

Harry made to walk forward and (probably) perform CPR on the wailing wizard but I stopped him with my cunningly thought out lie.

"It was intentional, thought I'd better make a start on the spring cleaning."

"It's December, Ginny," Harry said, flaunting his use of ridiculous, unimportant logic.

Oh. Right. Then.

I was saved from any further embarrassment by my mother's shrill call of, "Ginnnnnnny! Bill, Fleur and the kids are here!"

Wonderful, an afternoon with the children of the corn, they were probably plotting of ways to mortally wound their 'doting' Aunt Ginny already.

"Coming!" I shouted back as I moved nimbly past Harry and down the stairs, all the while, excruciatingly conscious not to trip up and land with my arse waving the air.

"Happy Christmas Gin," I heard Harry murmuring softly from behind me.

And to you Harry. And to you.

11111

"Would you like the Gravy, Auntie Ginny?" chorused the Terrible Trio from across the table. A suspiciously sparkling gravy dish was offered to me; three identical faces smiling innocently as their politeness was met with several 'ooh's' and 'aren't they lovely's'

"Why? What've you done to it?" I asked shrewdly. I had experienced too many 'accidents' caused by my nieces and nephew to fall for their cute 'we-wouldn't-really-turn-Aunt-Ginny's-hairbrush-into-a-angry-rattlesnake' faces.

At nearly six, Petra, Gabby and Arthur Jnr, had the luxury of being the only grandchildren in the family and as a result were spoiled to their rotten cores. Everybody adored their freakishly blond hair and face-filling freckles. Everybody expect me, that is. I was the only person, who saw that the triplets weren't docile angels but rather specimens of pure, prodigious evil.

"Ze children are not trying to poison you Ginny," Fleur said, smiling with her impossibly white teeth. I mean seriously white…she looked like a walking, talking toothpaste ad. Fourteen hours of childbirth and not a single stretch mark in sight. Despite this Hermione still refuses to accept my theory that dear sister-in-law is actually a regenerative alien, sent down from planet flawless to taunt the less-fortunate.

The whole table glared at me disapprovingly.

"No thank you, children," I responded, with an uber-niceness that would make even singing nuns vomit into their prayer books.

A second later something warm and smooth circled its way around my ankles. Being a sister of troublesome twins I feared the worst, unfortunately all my years of sibling 'games' had not prepared me for the horror that was…playing footsy with Lola.

"Ron," I whispered, digging an elbow in his side. "Please tell your girlfriend to stop assaulting my feet!"

My brother at least had the decency to turn red before mouthing something to Lola, who of which was receiving scary, 'death-is-too-good-for-you' glares from Hermione. Lola, unsurprisingly, had not been invited to dinner. My mother was a loyal woman and with Hermione being like a daughter to her, she had not been best pleased to find the blond bimbo knocking on the door one hour ago, bearing gifts of Firewhiskey and mistletoe. She was even more displeased to find that the whole of the male attention had cunningly been diverted to Lola's nearly bare chest, ever since. On the last count, she had asked, 'Aren't you cold, dear?' six times. Fred and George had different concerns.

"Impressive piece of work," George mused, peering down Lola's shirt. Ron had now turned a shade between magenta and red.

"Indeed," Fred agreed with a professional little nod. "Now, Lola, how would you feel about a bit of market research? Strictly above board of course." Fred blew upon his hands and wiggled them before her. "Nice and warm…"

"Fred!" screeched my mother. "Behave yourself! The poor girl didn't come here to be…felt up by you!" Ron was now purple.

"_She shouldn't be here at all!" _muttered a voice on the other side of me. I turned to see Hermione grinding her teeth. She looked as if she was either going to cry or turn green, jump on the table and rip out Lola's jugular. I'd go for the latter.

"Oh, I don't mind Molly," Lola said perkily, "The boys are just interested in magical enlargement. They said earlier that they were thinking of branching out into cosmetic magic. I'm happy to help." She turned towards my dad, blonde ponytail swishing in the air and added, "How about you Arthur? Do you share your son's interest?"

Now my mother was purple. My father meanwhile lifted his head, mumbled something and hastily went back to fiddling with his new muggle calculator.

Family dinners, especially Christmas were always eventful. Last year Percy had stupidly agreed to taste-test one of the Terrible Trio's 'mystery chocolates', the mystery being that they turned the person into the exact opposite of who they were; Percy had walked around with a pink Mohawk,'bitchin' tattoo and lip piercing for two weeks before the spell finally wore off. Thankfully, Mr. Middle-aged had decided to go to his girlfriend's this year, thus sparing us from his usual lectures on the 'lazy youth of today'. To match his descent into grouchiness I had brought him a pair of slippers. He had brought me a pen. Actually a 5-pack of biro pens. Nice one, Percy!

"It's a shame Charlie can't be here," Bill said, wisely changing the subject. "Mind you, that one is only happy when doing something ridiculously dangerous. Man after my own heart."

Charlie, much to my mum's distress, had decided to spend his Yule-time scaling the heights of Mount Everest (hopefully not in his ever-present leather trousers) with his wife, Anya, a muggle who is quite simply brilliant.

"Well, we're risking our lives too!" George exclaims, picking up a bowl of my delicious cranberry sauce and cringing. The drama queen…

"I can't remember Ginny's cooking being too bad," Harry compliments. I turn slightly to look at him, sitting on the other side of Ron. Other than the obligatorily fan fare over his return, he's been unusual quiet, just sitting and watching, a content smile on his face. I've seen his face show many things, fear, desire, hatred but never contentment.

"What about the time I gave you raw chicken?" I asked, recalling with a wince the five hours Harry spent locked in the bathroom.

He laughed a little but made no remark.

The meal went on, the usual festivities washing over me as I tried not to turn towards Harry. I was supposed to be angry at him not making moon-eyes.

"So Ginny, how's the job going?" my father questioned gently. My attention for the last few minutes had been focused on pulling faces at the Terrible Trio, so I looked up with a start.

"The hell bitch still reigning supreme?" Bill added, with a sympathetic shudder.

"Well," I began tetchily, "She's still Satan's lipstick wearing minion, if that's what you mean."

Ron huffed and said, "It can't be that bad!"

Like he'd know! His boss at the Ministry (international sports division), was a complete sweetheart, a doddery old man whose wife made Ron chocolate brownies every week. Just once I'd love for old Jenkins to get possessed by a control freak demon who had a fondness for whipping employees!

"No? How about this? Last week I had to pick up her mountain of dry cleaning, then put it into her wardrobe- colour co-ordinated of course and then, in case my fun levels were running too low, she asked if I'd give her carpets the quick once over with the bloody hover! I did but not before her toothbrush received the same treatment around the toilet bowl!"

"Ginny!-

"What? I've only got to suck up to her until the committee makes its decision. I'm sure to get the job, after all the only decent competition is Luna and she told me that her essay was on the 'top 100 ways that the Quibbler was better than the Prophet'. Weird choice for her but it has to be good for me, Right?"

An uncomfortable hush fell over the table. Even Lola had the good grace to stop slurping her eggnog.

"What?" I asked worriedly. A bad feeling flooded the pit of my stomach. Only Hermione looked as puzzled as me.

Harry coughed awkwardly and asked "That wouldn't be the position of special features writer, would it?"

I nodded. The bad feeling had started to growl

"Ron was supposed to have told you," Harry said, staring stonily at my red-faced brother/future murder victim.

Please tell me he's not going to say what I think…

"It's one of the reasons I came back," He said, now smiling slightly. "I got the job last week."

No way. Not a chance.

"I'll guess we'll be working together," Harry said, eyes twinkling. "Should be fun."

Yeah…fun…

I forced a smile. "I'm sure it will be."


	3. Still in Kansas

**Chapter three – Working Girl **

"That one is lovely!" Luna exclaimed dreamily. "You look like a giant bumblebee, buzz…"

I let out a frustrated sigh and quickly wriggled out of the black and yellow suit which my great Aunt Rena had given me for Christmas six years ago. For most of its life it had lived in the deep recesses of my wardrobe, making friends with odd socks and impulse buys (the hippogriff feather cat suit for one) but finally today, on the 27th December, it had an opportunity to shine, well, it did before I threw it out of the open window.

"This is hopeless," I moaned, staring dismally at the pile of rejected outfits. Today was meant to be the day that I dragged my body back to the office, slumped down at my desk and charmed the office fairies to spit in Hell Bitch's carefully styled hairdo. But no, in stepped fate dressed as Harry Potter, and my plans, as fast as you could said 'clucking bell' had transformed into a 6'o clock dress up session.

"Here you go," Hermione said, dropping some of her own perfectly folded clothes onto the bed. "Tell me again why I'm letting you borrow my things?"

"Firstly," I began, picking up a long grey skirt. "It's because, as the best flatmate in the universe, I'll be doing all the housework this week and secondly it's because I need to wear something prissy and prudish. You're the first person I thought of."

"Ah shucks, how flattering!" Hermione responded sarcastically before sitting beside Luna, looking warily at her real-apple earrings.

"You know what I mean," I said apologetically. "I don't want him to think I care."

"Now where would he get that idea?" she mused, a sly smile on her face.

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to answer. One bad thing about living with Hermione was that 95 of the time she was right and for a person prone to staggering feats of wrongness like me, it was especially annoying.

I pulled on the skirt and teamed it up with an equally grey shirt, which if Percy ever took up cross-dressing, would be sure to fit in with his 'dress-like-I'm-dead' look.

"How about this one?" I asked Luna and Hermione. Peering with squinted eyes in the floating mirror, I let out a 'yikes' at the roundness my backside before quickly reassuring myself that the lardy culprit was actually my newly discovered Siamese twin.

"It's perfect," Hermione answered flatly, "You're glorious transformation into a walking chastity belt is complete!"

Oh dear. It sounded as if I wasn't the only one suffering from post-Christmas meltdown. Mind you, after the train-wreck of a day at my parent's house, which reached dizzyingly impressive heights of 'shoot-me-now' awkwardness as the hours dragged on, Hermione had every reason to be Grinch-like. It must have been pure torture to sit across from Lola and not reach for the carving knife.

"So, erm, what's up?" I ventured tentatively. Hermione had perfected the art of biting innocent friend's heads off, namely me, whenever that question is asked. Normally I would avoid it like I avoid narrow corridors and Slughorn's 'oopsie daisy' accidental gropes but a friend in need and all that…

She let out a sigh. "I have a date with Ron tonight and I'm utterly terrified. I'm sorry that I've been giving you such a hard time over Harry, Gin; it was completely hypocritical of me. You've seen him once in the last five years whereas I've seen Ron in every way, nearly everyday for the past fourteen years! But tonight, we could maybe sort things out. Not that'll I make it easy for him, that is. After his behaviour a serious grovelling session is required." Hermione chanced at look at my reaction. Confused just about covered it.

"When did all this happen?" I asked, thinking back on Christmas Day and remembering nothing but Lola's overflowing bosom, the terrible trio's pointy horns, forked tails and of course, the return of prodigal boyfriend Harry. I think I would distantly remember the reconciliation of the most miss-matched/perfect couple ever.

"Think back, to just after four o'clock," Hermione began, in a settle-round-the-campfire voice. "The twins had knocked themselves out; Molly was frantically cleaning up and the children had just finished sprinkling super-smelly vinegar into your shoes."

_Hmm! Fond memories…_

"Fleur, unaccustomed to the direness of British Christmas tradition, had suggested a game of charades," Hermione put on an artsy French accent, "or _charadies _as she liked to call them. Anyway one hour in, a certain busty ditz volunteered to go next. The twins soon perked up as she began lap dancing around the living room. Ron was mortified and nodded for me to join him in the kitchen. I consented, mostly because I didn't want her _bits_ jiggling in front of my face anytime soon!"

Luna giggled and commented dryly, "That sounded like fun."

"She was meant to be a veela," I added reasonably but was soon silenced by Hermione's glare.

"He started going on about how he never wanted her there and how much he missed me," Hermione said, slightly sadly before turning to me and asking, "Who's Ricky anyway?"

I smiled at the supreme dumbness that was my brother and shook my head innocently. "No idea."

"Oh grumble!" Luna said loudly as she suddenly jumped from the bed. "I'm late for work! Good luck to both of you! Bye bye darlings!" With a crack, she apparated away. Unlike me, Luna hadn't been the slightest bit annoyed about not getting the job (which was meant for me!) Seven years ago, her long-lost uncle/aunt, John/Julie, had died and left her a humongous fortune, so she now held her own Quidditch commentating classes at the local college, free of charge. At the moment her pupils included deaf squib Archie, six year old Fabian and a talking cat called Boris.

"Nervous?" asked Hermione as I looked for the nine-hundredth time in the mirror.

I stared hard at my slightly-green face, _are you nervous?_ I asked it. _Hell yes!_ The green tinge replied.

"Of course not!" I replied with bravado. "I've got a good feeling about today. Something is going to happen, I know it. Today is going to be…"

1

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1

…mind numbingly boring! For the last hour I have sat at my tiny, cluttered desk, making lists on the back of a beer matt.

No. of times Colin Creevy has told me he's reconsidered my tempting offer (the fleshy flashdance) 6

No. of times I've looked through the job ads 9

No. of times Hermione has owled me 3

No. of times I've considered killing anybody who mentions the office party 35

Even at 2.30 in the afternoon, Hell Bitch and boss George have yet to grace us with their presence. The rumour is that they had a gigantic row on Christmas Eve after she had found her randy husband in a tricky position with Lavender Brown. Apparently George's claims that he and the slim, gorgeous secretary were merely practicing yoga movements together, didn't go down too well. Colin (the office gossip) had said that Hell Bitch had put a force field around their house, causing George to crash in the garden shed and giving her time to turn all his expensive shirts pink and frilly. As is the way with those two, they soon reconciled and had spent the last two days having wild, middle-aged, make-up sex. (Thank the Lord this was told to me before I had my 11'0 clock cake and coffee break!)

Despite all my worrying, I have only seen Harry 'doesn't-my-job-look-fabulous-on-you' Potter once. I had been grumbling under my breath in the staffroom, when he appeared. When I say the 'staffroom', don't allow the imagination to stretch to plush chairs, clean carpets and a smell which doesn't resemble week-old socks and smoke. Even though the Prophet had been taken over by new management three years ago, boss George didn't deem the staff room worthy of a revamp and so we lowly workers (the bigwigs were rumoured to have a separate fantasy room with a swimming pool and actual heating!) were stuck with the old 1970s décor.

Although it was my first day back after the generous Christmas holiday of two days, I had quickly fallen into my old routine, and was at 11.05 in the morning, banging on the coffee machine and thinking wistfully of the infamous, super duper magical machine of the bigwigs (it was supposed to ask you, ever so politely, just how you'd like your tea, offer you travel advice and all the while, freshly baking delicious chocolate cookies)

I was raising the cup of murky, thick coffee to my lips, when Harry walked to my side.

"Good morning," he had said brightly. Nodding towards the veteran machine, he continued, "What would you recommend?"

"Well," I answered easily enough, "if you have taste buds, nothing. But if you want to experience the worst taste known to mankind, then I'd go for the cappuccino."

Harry grinned and following my advice, opted for nothing. Out of the corner of my eye, I discreetly checked him out. He was wearing scruffy jeans and a red t-shirt. The last time I had worn jeans Hell Bitch had sent me home to change.

"I know," Harry said, noticing my disapproving frown. "But can you imagine me in a suit? I'd look like a cross between James Bond and an undertaker!"

"James Bond?" I replied with raised eyebrows. (I had been watching Dad's collection)

"Shaken not stirred? I don't think so. You're more like Rocky. The plucky underdog."

Harry scoffed. "Rocky is a beefy boxer, Ginny, a beefy boxer with very little brains!" He put a hand to his heart and exclaimed, "The lady does offend me!"

I rolled my eyes, secretly marvelling how easy it all was. Of course, I was still completely confused about his 5-year holiday to never-never land or wherever but at least I had controlled myself enough not to get him by the throat, shove a nipping gnome down his pants and demand answers. I was quite proud of myself.

"Will you meet me tonight?" Harry had asked more quietly. "We can talk about things. I bet you have a few questions."

_A few! A few! Try a few thousand! _

I smiled despite myself. "Sure, that'd be fine."

The consoling voice of one of those naff self-help tapes had suddenly come to mind…_that's good Ginny, play it cool. You're in control. Feel the power, good girl!_

We looked at each other for a moment. There was no awkwardness, well not much. We smiled the smile of old friends. Everything was going to be ok.

"Miss Weasley, ah!" had come a horribly familiar voice. A firm, fat hand clamped down on my shoulder. Feck!

"Mr. Slughorn," I had greeted uber-politely, without turning around. I could smell his dodgy aftershave. Oh god, it was the same smell which refused to leave my black dress. Please, please, please, don't let him mention Christmas Eve. If there is a God in heaven then strike the old walrus dumb, please!

"Harry Potter!" he burst out happily. "I haven't seen you in forever!" He thankfully let go of my shoulder and moved to pet Harry's hair. Harry moved away with a scowl before saying hello in a very frosty manner. I'm not surprised, in the sixth year Slughorn had practically wanted to adopt him. The now showbiz columnist was renowned for his arse-kissing skills.

Noticing his less than delirious response, Slughorn turned his back on Harry and said to me, in a very loud voice, "As much as I'm flattered by your attention Miss Weasley, I'm afraid I just can't partake in an office romance. I'm positive that given time you're broken heart will get over me."

_Get over yourself! _

Slughorn, with his giant moustache and big shiny cheeks, had made to move closer towards me. Surely he can't be going in for a kiss? Just in case, I had leapt to seek cover behind a very bemused Harry. Looking haughty, Slughorn reached for something in his bright yellow tweed jacket. He handed it to me. It was my wand!

"I found this in a, ahem, private place. I expect you'll be wanting it."

Cringing, I nodded my thanks and he had traipsed away. Harry had begun to laugh.

"Don't ask," I had uttered with a sigh, "Don't bloody ask."

1

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1

So here I am, waiting impatiently for what the night with Harry could bring. I had already rearranged my quills into height order; proof read tomorrow's edition and convinced Lavender Brown that she couldn't sue George Skeeter because he hadn't given her a promotion. ("You did sleep with him Lavender…no it doesn't matter that you didn't actually _sleep, _you still did _it!_")

"Afternoon Weasley, you busy?"

Speak of the devil, a pink-shirt wearing George, sat down on my desk and stared at my outfit, finding it severely lacking in short hem-lines and cleavage, he sniffed and said, "Look different today Weasley, I wouldn't mind a reappearance of that sexy little black number you wore at the party."

"I don't think you're wife would agree," I replied pleasantly, "Where is hell – I mean Rita today?"

He chuckled, obviously thinking that I wanted his missus out of the way so I could seduce the living daylights out of him. Not likely! Although a nice enough fellow, shiny bald heads and goatee beards do nothing for me. I looked past him, through the busy office and to the front doors. Thankfully, there was no sign of Rita; a woman who may have started out as an annoying gossip but had soon, due to marriage and new power progressed into becoming a truly horrible creature (think the love child of Cruella de Ville and Hitler)

"She's still in bed, resting up, if you know what I mean," George said with a knowing wink. Ew…just ew…

"Anyway," he began, popping one leg up on the desk. I hastily averted my eyes.

"I've got a new assignment for you. Think 2-page spread. Your name in big letters, '_written by Ginevra Weasley'_ Sound good?"

Did it ever! I'd dreamt of being a proper journalist all my life. I just knew that story I had put on his desk (and owled to his house three days in a row) would lead to big things. It had taken me forever to research the details and nearly broke my heart when I heard the tales of the survivors (of the European wizarding war) but now, oh yes now! it was all coming together. Goodbye to running Hell Bitch's errands! Goodbye to writing the sodding obituaries! Hello success!

Who cares about mine, I mean, Harry's job? I had integrity. Finally, I would have some respect!

"Strap on a mini-skirt darling, you'll be posing as a groupie."

Thud! The sound of me crashing back to earth.

"What?" I asked George, dismayed.

"We need a feature on the hottest band around. Since you're the only one in the office who looks half decent and has a brain, you're the gal for the job. Excited?" George looked at me and beamed. Did he expect me to drop down on my knees and thank him? The bloody cheek!

I ran a hand through my messy hair. Think positively, I told myself, there had to be a silver lining! The band was probably a cool little Indie number with a drop dead gorgeous lead singer, who would fall in love with me, buy the Daily Prophet and run over George and Rita in a tractor.

"What are they called?" I asked hopefully.

George surveyed me with a suggestive wiggle of his thick black eyebrows before saying in a school-boy fashion, "Poison Balls. They are very big in America."

Groan…that silver lining must be around somewhere, surely…

"At least I'll get to travel," I said more brightly. I've never been to the US, might be nice.

"Afraid not lass. They are playing at the Pegasus Palace. Colin will go with you; you know what he's like around boy bands." _Yeah, like a big fawning fan girl..._

I sank in my chair slightly…poison balls! What the hell kind of name was that?

"The Palace is down the street," I said pointlessly. How could a troundle down the road with Creevy be my big break?

"Yep!" he replied, shuffling closer towards me. I leapt from the desk and muttered something about finding Colin.

George's voice called after me, "Remember to wear something slutty!"

Well, integrity is overrated anyway…


	4. Down the Yellow Brick Road

Thanks to all those who reviewed! There's a shiny cyber puppy coming your way (all the cuteness and none of the mess)

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"Hitch it up a bit more!"

"Colin, if it goes up anymore I'll be arrested!" I growled out.

Colin was happily walking by my side, heading towards Pegasus Palace; I meanwhile was hopping up and down, trying desperately to retrieve the skirt which seemed to have disappeared twenty minutes ago. We could have apparated but Colin, the sadistic sod that he is, had insisted on us both stretching our legs.

"God! How much do I hate this job!" I asked out loud while rooting in my bag for my wand. Perhaps if I could just make it a couple of inches (try twenty) longer then I wouldn't feel so ridiculous.

Reluctantly I had agreed to let Lavender Brown get her manicured hands on me for the full 'makeover experience'. It should have been like a fairytale where the ugly duckling gets transformed into the beautiful princess but as it was, I spent ten minutes in a crummy bathroom getting plucked, prodded and pulled in while Lavender further filled me in on the Boss's stamina and skill ("he's quite the little goer, well, he is Ginny! There's no need to look like that! What? No, I won't put a memory charm on you, honestly! It's only _sex_…") Not having time to change, I was forced to swap clothes with Lavender which meant I squeezed into her range of hooker wear while she begrudgingly put on my dreary grey ensemble.

Needless to say, Hermione's dress now had a few alterations – it no longer had a back, very little front and had been shrunk so small that even Crookshanks would have a hard time putting it on. Later on I'd tell Hermione that it had all been in a good cause. She'd tell me that my nose was growing.

"I don't know what you're moaning about," Colin commented wisely. "This is a fantastic opportunity."

I gave him an 'are-you-_serious_?' glare but refrained from answering back. Looking at Colin in his tight, fashionably ripped jeans and 'Poison Balls' t-shirt, I don't think even a sudden hurricane could dampen his freakish excitement. His blond hair, which could be called 'dirty blond' if not for the supreme weirdness that comes with connecting 'dirty' within a five mile radius of Colin, was spiked up and the tips tinted green.

1

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1

"Oh yes," he had smiled when I had spotted him strutting out of the men's bathroom earlier in the day. "I know what you're thinking! Isn't it illegal to look _this_ good? Well, darling it may well be but who am _I_ to deprive the world of a crime so gorgeous."

"Don't you think you're a trifle…over the top?" I had asked, giggling as he pouted and posed. Colin was, without doubt, the gayest straight man I had ever met (that's including Professor 'dodgy-memory-but-fabulous-hair' Lockhart)

"One must make an effort!" he had flourished, giving my own 'outfit' the Creevy Eyes of Appraisal. "Nice touch with the fishnets; very 'not a Lady but a Tramp'."

"Glad my humiliation pleases you Col," I had replied, laughing at myself a little. "Next step – streaking up Diagon Alley… Watch out pedestrians, naked lady on the loose!"

1

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1

"So, what is this band like then?" I asked Colin as we neared the Pegasus Palace, which loomed shabbily chic in the distance. I found that if I said 'the band' and not their actual name then not every shred of my dignity would disappear into the black hole of LoserVille (I already owned a holiday home –visits were becoming so frequent that very soon I'd have to invest in a plant pot, coat rack and curtains.)

"Poison Balls?" _bye, bye…_ "Not a clue. They're supposed to be very big in America though," Colin said with a grin. Now where have I heard that before?

"Well, why have you got the obsessive fan look going on? Please don't say you had _that _ensemble hanging up in your wardrobe. I'm still recovering from the feather boa and g-string incident." (Don't ask)

"We're undercover agents Ginny. Set the challenge of a lifetime…" Colin answered dramatically, gripping my shoulders." We are the chosen two who will delve through the hype, heave through the demonic fans and gather the nitty gritty on the great, legendary Poison Balls! "

Yeah right…

Colin, who had of course been doing his sarcastic-'I'm-inviting-death-by-bat-bogey-hex' voice, shook his head despairingly and added, "Humour Ginny! Has the concept escaped you entirely?"

"No!" I replied, my voice dangerous high. (At this point I was either having a mild panic attack or Lavender's microscopic boob tube was cutting of much needed circulation to the brain)

"But they could be anything!" My arms swung around me, fingers waggling with a life of their own. "Gothic vampires or Danish clog dancers for all we know! And, and, they could all have weird hairy chins, I'm not talking sexy stubble, _oh no_, I mean, thick hairs _protruding_ out, like the kind old women have and you just know that those hairs are going to be living on your chin in thirty years time!" I turned and glared at a distracted Colin.

"Are you listening Col?" I demanded, "This is really bloody serious!"

"Deeply sorry dear," he began in mock-apology, "But when you mentioned dancing I couldn't help but remember your very enticing offer a few nights ago…"

Will I ever live that night down? Alcohol, especially free alcohol should carry a huge, flashing warning or better still emit tiny electric shocks whenever thirsty redheads with very little common sense decide that 'Mmm, I bet a tipple of Firewhiskey will free those pesky inhibitions' and grab a bottle(s)

"Do we need to go over the rules again, young Creevy?" I asked disapprovingly, hands firmly on hips. "If you value your manhood, never _ever _mention the party or any ill-advised drunken offer I might have extended."

Laughing, he retorted cheekily, "In that dress lots of offers were _extended,_ if you catch my drift..."

Flesh crawling now…

"Gross, Colin!" my voice said with disgust. "How about you try not speaking for a while?"

"Suits me, dear."

"Fine."

"Good!"

"You're still talking!"

"So are you."

"I'm allowed!"

There's something about being round Creevy that always brings out the child in me. Perhaps it because he reminds me of a dog we once had, Figolo. Now old Fig was as cute as could be with his great doe eyes and cheeky doggy grin; he liked nothing better than having a pat on the head and a belly rub. The only problem was that he had a slight tendency to hump (or 'make friends' as Mum delicately put it) with anything that moved – including Percy's first girlfriend Penelope; I don't know who was more embarrassed Penelope or my brother, who had to wrench Fig off only to have him make friends with his leg instead.

There are many advantages of acting like a child – giving killer Chinese burns being just one…

"Ow!" Colin cried girlishly, "Get off me, you mad woman!"

My devilish laughter was soon dampened by the fluttery, nervous feeling which crept over me. We were mere meters away from the Pegasus Palace; I had passed the black, poster covered building a million times before but never with the 'mission' of dishing the dirt on one of its leading acts.

"Popular aren't they?" I said deadpan, looking up at the empty street. Typical of the Boss to set us an assignment which nobody will even read! I may as well have stuck with designing the 'Tricky Toad' crossword like I did last week – at least then I had some appreciation! Granted it was only a nitpicking old bag writing in to say that a tomato, despite what I claimed in the clue for 9 across, is a fruit and not a vegetable, but still, it was _something._

"It's still early," commented the green-spiked one, "The gig doesn't start till seven. By then, I'm sure the streets will be as full as they would be for a 'trade in your old husbands for a fit toy boy' day."

"Seven?" I said, panicking, "I won't have to stay until then, surely?"

There was Harry to consider…

Colin pretended to appear hurt. "Oh yes!" he said tetchily, "Now that our old idol has returned, poor Colin, the dependable yet dashingly handsome photographer, gets cast aside. Was I only ever a body to you Ginny? A mere sex object used solely for your insatiable, animalistic urges?"

"How did you know we had a date?" I asked, bypassing the playful banter, before quickly answering myself, "Stupid question." Colin, the self-titled Gossip King, knew who was doing it, what colour knickers they were wearing and how many sugars they took in their recovery cup of tea. Weirdo.

"Very big news in the office," Colin began in a sulky voice. "Our new celebrity writer/war hero freshly returned from the wilderness to reunite the Golden Couple. It could be a film, a crappy one, but still a PG rated smash. And of course every rom-com heroine needs a plucky sidekick…I wonder who shall play me? Macaulay Culkin?"

"Who?"

"Never mind," Colin sighed, "I'll contact my replacement and warn him that you might be a little late. Don't worry, I won't fill him in on our torrid romance – a black eye just wouldn't go with this outfit."

He grabbed my hand and led me to the entrance.

"Off you go ducks!" Colin spoke with a cruel amount of glee as he smacked me on the backside and urged me through the door. "I'll be just a minute."

1

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1

Right, this is fine…not at all like the first day of (tramp) school. I am super, professional journalist, dedicated to providing cutting edge topics to my wide readership. I am –

"The lucky girl? Hello! Anybody in?" a sharp, posh voice demanded impatiently. I looked up from my position just inside the door, to find a tall, black-haired man staring down at me, foot tapping on the floor and arms crossed.

"Oh hello," I replied, surprised. "Yes, I am the lucky winner. I'm here to see, ahem, Poison Balls…I just love them." (Note to self- must learn how to speak when under pressure)

The man sniffed dismissively and replied, "Doesn't everybody? I expect there is more of your type clamouring to get in, yes? Well, they will have to wait. I can't have them disturbing the band's preparation period."

I nodded and smiled politely. Even though he was staring me as if I were a particularly gruesome flubberworm/niffler hybrid, I didn't have the heart to tell him that Poison Ball's current bevy of adoring fans consisted of a squinty-eyed pigeon and a crisp bag.

"My name is Lorna Lavgood," I said randomly, filling the awkward silence. Good God this man was creepy! I was supposed to be the lucky prize-winner, chosen out of thousands to meet and question the band. I had slogged my guts out answering that all-important question in Witch Weekly magazine – 'Q. What is Rench, the bass player's favourite song? A. 'Rock Hard' by Poison Balls out on the 1st January – do buy!'

Or at least I should have done if the Boss hadn't already rigged the competition in my favour. Apparently Poison Balls were one of those bands not big with selling themselves to the media (hence the Boss's splendid idea of an undercover spy); for them it was all about the music _dude…_

"Right," he stated in an indifferent tone. "I am the band's manger – although I feel like their mother most of the time. V is the name."

Fandabulous! Pretentious showbiz types – just what I need.

"Having fun?" Colin said, reappearing from nowhere. Yikes! That man really does go above and beyond the call of duty. A spangling bandanna is tied around his neck and yet more band badges are clipped proudly on his t-shirt. He looks like he's raided the souvenir cart, married the shop assistant and moved on to have twins called 'Poison' and 'Balls'.

I quickly latched myself to Colin's side, hoping that some of his all-too convincing fan-love would rub off on me. "This is my friend Colin," I said, "A fellow lover of the Balls."

V's thin lips twitched slightly into a smile. "Charmed." His piercing blue eyes settled on my face. "The band should be ready for you now. Remember you get five questions, a quick photograph and then a song. The boys need to preserve their voices so you'll be hearing it on a tape."

Wow. I feel all special inside.

"That sounds delightful," Colin responded perkily, nudging me discreetly.

"Sure does!" I chimed in. "Can we see them now? I just can't stand the excitement any longer!" I added a girlish squeal for good measure.

"Fine," drawled V, in a long suffering tone. He turned away and pointed. "Be a good girl, walk along that corridor and knock on the door. Don't be fooled by that cunning 'Fire Exit' sign – the lad's dressing room is the one with the great whacking star on it. You simply can't miss it. Do you follow or should I organise a guided tour?

Here's a little life tip – Arrogance, a trait most comfortable in men, should ideally be punished by a nice zap of an electric cattle-prodder, it's quick, painful and when done in the right place, will emit a satisfying scream from the offender. But if no weapons are handy, sarcasm can be the next best defence.

"Actually, my thick floozy non-brain has trouble with anything longer than, say, one syllable. How about you tell me again, slowly, and this time with cute hand puppets? And perhaps with a musical accompaniment – I suggest bongos!"

V let out a cackle (which he probably learnt at a 'how-to-be-like-an-underworld-ass' class – I hear they're very popular)

"Sassy, isn't she?" he said to Colin, 'man' to man. "Do me a favour Clive-"

"Colin-"

"_Clive_, keep her on a leash when she's with the lads. They aren't used to birds that bite."

Bugger! What have I been pushed into? Are 'the lads' cryogenically frozen from the prehistoric times or something? _Me strong man – you weedy woman- cook my walrus - me man will be doing yoga with busty cave neighbour…_ (Maybe not)

Colin and I made to walk towards our doom when V's piercing voice called us back.

"Remember, smiley-smiley, listen to the song but no touching! We've had problems with that before." His voice dropped to a bitter snipe, "These girls selling their stories to the press, ridiculous, '_oh he used handcuffs, bla bla_'…attention seekers, every one!"

I put on my brightest smile. Ouch, it hurt. "Well, I'll make sure to keep my arms and legs in the cart at all times!"

V, seeming quite bewildered, shook his head and took a folded photograph of his sleek black suit. With a tap of his wand, it zipped over and hit me directly in the eyes.

_Bloody wanker! _

Colin quickly took it off me, saying in a strange, distant voice that it was of the band. Thinking nothing of it, I began walking towards the corridor, steering defiantly past the fire exit and towards the dressing room.

"You better take a look at this!" Colin said, now laughing loudly. "Its priceless!"

I took it off him, expecting to see Danish clog-dancers with hairy chins staring up at me.

"No way!" I muttered out loud. "That can't be _him_…and there's not a chance that he's…_him_!"

With a bright smile, Colin knocked on the door. "This day just got very _interesting_."

It swung open. Drunken laughter was heard.

"Will you marry me?" asked Draco Malfoy, lead singer of Poison Balls.

I need a drink. A very large, alcoholic drink.

------------------------

_Note – at this point Mr. Malfoy only has a cameo appearance. I think Ginny (despite having a big arse – so she thinks) is the kind of girl with several admires – perhaps Slughorn is her ideal man…I strongly (beg) you to review and tell me if it sucks or not!_


	5. The Tin Man

**Chapter Five**

**The Tin Man**

"Will you marry me?"

"Erm, sure!"

At moments like these, when your knickers are riding so far up your backside you'd need a four man excursion team, sniffer dogs and a four leaf clover to find them, and when you're in the serious risk of losing both a job, sanity and your dinner, there is only one thing to do…

"Jesus, is she, like, having a fit or something?"

"No!" I spluttered; laughing so hard that I had to grab on to what I hoped was Colin's arm for support.

"This is just _priceless_!"

Malfoy, dumbstruck and as drunk as a thirsty ant doing the breaststroke in a bottle of tequila, blearily closed his eyes, opened them, blinked and then promptly collapsed in a graceful heap on the floor.

"Nice to see you too," Colin commented, a huge grin beaming on his features. He sprung forward and waved his hand in front of Draco's intoxicated face.

"This is like a dream," he breathed, far too gleefully. "Anyone got a pen? It's about time Malfoy had a devilish moustache to twirl! Oh and a dastardly goatee! Quick, before he wakes up!"

Stepping slowly away from Colin (who knew what any sudden movements might trigger?) I gazed around the dressing room, taking everything in as quickly as possible. I mentally tallied up the amount of empty beer bottles (Which on my count was enough to keep a small country's AA meetings in full attendance) and with amazement, found there to be at least six pairs of girly knickers hanging carelessly on the chairs and lampshades. Either the band had experienced one hell of a good morning or their stage costumes were in serious need of a rethink.

Lounged on the floor, cigarette in one hand and palm-sized guitar in the other was the bassist Rench. Through a mop of shaggy brown hair, he winked and said lazily, "Hallo darling, nice to meet you!"

Realising that my cover, thanks to the man (in kickable distance from my spiked heels), had already been blown to pebble-sized lumps of 'Bugger!' I decided to drop the 'I-want-to-have-your-babies-and-cut-your-toenails-with-my-teeth' mantra and instead slip into something more comfortable. That being the role of intelligent and poised under pressure wonder gal, who, with fantastic hair and a winning smile, is able to chat with rock stars like a pro (as in professional! Not the other kind of pro- despite current appearance)

"Greetings," I nodded, sounding like my mother. Oh dear…scary thought. "You must be Mr. Rench. I like your…hair. Very rad!"

Good one Weasley. Nice use of the cool 'tude…

"Thanks, I grew it myself." Rench peeled himself off the floor and nudged a still-zonked out Malfoy with his booted foot. "Out for the count. Shame, he's normally a big hit with you ladies," noticing Colin and his flamboyant outfit for the first time, he added, "-and you dudes of course."

Colin pulled a face of horror and jumped back to my side.

Rench, who I realised with sudden shock, was one pair of pants away from showing me him whole birthday suit, moved to the corner of the room and pulled away a large afghan coat away, exposing a skinny young man. I guessed him to be Paddy – lead guitarist and award-winning flower arranger. He had a fluffy pink afro and was playing with a flashing yo-yo, while humming the national anthem and spelling a bottle of nail varnish to polish his feet (the whole things) purple.

Weird didn't even _begin_ to cover it.

"So this is, like, the band," Rench explained, "Well, nearly. Our drummer disappeared an hour ago to locate a clean bog. He's got a thing about having a fresh bowl. Freak. Anyway, I'll get the tape. Prepare yourself for the magic of the Balls!"

Colin gave me an encouraging nudge, "We might get away with it after all, sugar lump."

Huh, it could be our lucky day. As long as Malfoy, who I hadn't even begun to digest the madness of, stayed catatonic and the drummer remained on his hunt for the perfect flush, then we might just scrape an ok slice of showbiz reporting. I could even wheedle a few exclusives out of Rench – he seemed the kind to fall for a flash of flesh, however lumpy it might be.

The door creaked open. Spinning around, my ambitious little heart sank quicker than Hagrid on a surf board.

"Gin! Col! Bloody fantastic to see you!" Neville 'figment-of-my -imagination' Longbottom beamed, standing in front of us, all six-foot of tall, tanned and tattooed.

"Alternate-reality- right?" I muttered hopefully to Colin, while fake-smiling and shaking Neville's hand.

Colin shook his head and whispered back, "Afraid not darling."

"You look…" I began, staring transfixed at Neville's shaven head and lip piercing (Holy mother of all things sacred, I was beginning to fancy _Neville!_) " I eventually settled on

"…different."

Neville's smile grew larger. "Yeah? Good! My grandmother still wants me to wear shorts and a bow tie. I try telling her that Rock Gods do not look good in tweed but does she listen?"

I guess you don't.

"So, you know these guys?" Rench asked with good humoured suspicion. "Coincidence. Red and Spike here are the competition winners. You haven't been using your rock star status for Evil again, have you Boulder?"

Colin chortled and blurted out, "Boulder?"

"It's a nickname," Neville countered without a dash of blushing shame. He turned to me. "Not that it isn't great to see you guys again, but why are you here? Are you a fan of the music?" He looked slightly hopeful. "You'll be staying for the concert, won't you?"

"Erm…" I always had been a terrible liar. "I, or we, are actually not here for that…as such." I turned expectantly to Colin. He was smiling angelically and twiddling his thumbs.

"Why doesn't Creevy continue?" I said, smirking as Colin coughed a very indiscreet _'Shut-up!'_

"He's so much more articulate than I am."

Another cough. _'Cow!' _

"Right," Colin sighed, "Might as well come clean. My assistant and I-"

"_Assistant?_"

"-were sent here, posing as winners, to trick you guys into answering our cunningly clever questions and probably raiding your mini-fridge well we're at it. George Skeeter, our boss, well he's really just the guy who lurks around the office checking out the cleavage and nicking all the good biscuits, anyway he was told how notorious you guys were about not talking to the press so here we are, suited, booted and spiked up." He inclined his head my way and added with a sly snigger, "You didn't seriously think _that _was for real, did you?"

Meow! Note to self must replace Creevy's toothpaste with bleach.

"We're really sorry," I started lamely. "But you will still answer some questions? Please?"

Rench, Neville and Colin laughed indulgently as if to say, _aw women! Give her a pat on the head and a biscuit. _Even Paddy let out a high-pitched giggle. Draco continued to snore softly.

"No can do," Paddy spoke for the first time. Hs accent was a strange mix of Scottish and Cockney. "Everything has to be passed by old Draco. He'd have our bloody heads if we spoke to paparazzi without his say so."

I looked despairingly at Draco's slumbering form.

Exasperated, I urged, "Well, wake him up then!"

Rench, Neville and Paddy all shook their heads. "Not a good idea. He'll be right pissed off."

Oh good lord…I bet Ruthena Blackheart (world-renowned writer and inspiration) never had this trouble.

"Fine," I said, getting out my wand and pointing it at the Sleeping Beauty. "I'll do it myself. _Wak-" _

"Stop!" shouted three voices at once. "He hates people doing spells on him."

Scowling a scowl that could sink a thousand ships, I hastily picked up a vase of flowers (Paddy's latest creation) and slung the purple blossoms on the floor.

"I'll do it the old fashioned way, then."

_Splash! _

"What the hell!" shouted a very wet, very annoyed, Draco Malfoy. Well, at least he was awake.

Colin laughed and stated the obvious, "That worked."

Now that he was stood in front of me, quietly seething, I took the time to look him over (For professional reasons obviously) His blond hair fell in messy layers around his shoulders and he too was head to foot in black leather. Didn't these people have body temperatures? I was baking in my outfit and I was hardly wearing anything!

Draco, with a killer sneer, cast dismissive eyes over me and Colin. I dryly concluded that his marriage proposal might not be too binding right now…

"Band. Over here," Draco commanded, walking to the corner of the room. Neville, Rench and finally Paddy, after picking up his beloved flowers, followed like naughty schoolboys.

Colin sniffed in mock-anger. "I see Blondie is still as polite as ever. You'd think a return trip to the Dark side and back again might improve his people skills somewhat. Mind you, I bet old reptile-face didn't host too many dinner parties, slaughter showers maybe…are you even listening? "

"Huh?" I tore my eyes and eavesdropping ears away from the band's secret rendezvous. "Did you say something?"

"Just that I'm thinking of killing you, dying my hair red and taking your identity."

"Oh that's nice," I mumbled, "Me too." I sneaked a peak behind me. "Quick act natural, they're coming back!"

"Miss. Weasley," Draco began, his polite tone failing to hide the mock underneath. "And Colin Creepy… how divine to see you again. Last time I saw you, your voice still resembled a seven-year old girl. Tell me, have you finally hit puberty?"

"Don't listen to him," I advised a red-faced Colin. I smiled sweetly at Malfoy. There was no option but to kiss some serious arse (Not literally). "You look well, Draco."

"Yes, I know," came the smug reply. Men! "Anyway, enough of the compliments, I hear you're in quite the predicament. Lying, cheating, near-prostitution…you've been a busy girl. If I had known that you wanted to see me so bad then I would have had my secretary make you an appointment," Draco paused to gauge my reaction. It wasn't best pleased.

"So, here's my offer – you need an exclusive interview with the band and I'm willing to offer it. But I want one favour in exchange. I'm a reasonable man, just one little favour…"

My stomach flipped over with an unhealthy squelch. This was Draco 'Brat King' Malfoy; with him anything was possible…

Draco's face lit up with a feral smile, which exposed a set of white teeth. "I want you to be the band's backing singer."

"What!" I hissed. He must still be drunk. Surely, he must be…

"Just for tonight's show," he elaborated slyly, "It'll be fun."

Fun? Ha! Try humiliating, horrendous, soul crushing, please-kill-me-now awful!

I shook my head so hard my looped earrings left red marks on my cheeks. "No bloody way! A dying duck with no vocal cords and stage fright could hold a tune better than me."

Obviously expecting this reaction, Draco moved lazily to the chair and put up his feet. "Your choice," he spoke neutrally, silver eyes laughing. "But remember no stage boogie then no interview. I'm sure your boss will be very pleased to know how you failed to gain the only interview that my fantastic-soon-to-be-world-famous band, will give."

Hmm, the bastard had a point. I may well be sitting at the bottom of a very large career barrel but it was at least, better than nothing. If I didn't get the interview then The Boss was sure to give me the proverbial sack. Then what would I do? I'd have to eat beans on stale toast every day, hang around hospitals to scrounge clothes off dead bodies, and, oh God, move back home!

"Ok. I'll do it."

"Bleeding excellent!" Paddy said, rubbing his skinny fingers through his candyfloss hair.

If I was to resort to therapy-needing embarrassment, I damn well wasn't doing it alone. "What about Colin?"

Cough. _Evil-Cow _

Draco threw a look of utter indifference towards Colin and replied coolly, "I don't think he'd have quite the same effect somehow."

I nodded, not really listening. In fact my body was beginning to shake so hard that my ears could only hear the queasy sound of my knees banging together. Public displays of anything, never mind singing, were so far from up my street, that they'd need a passport to come anywhere near. Even the thought of carol singing brought me out in a cold sweat.

But perhaps it wouldn't come to that… (My streak of sneakiness was beginning to kick in) I could ask my questions first and then, due to some unfortunate incident – perhaps news of a dead great aunt or burglary where only that hideous jumper Ron gave me gets stolen, I could rush off and slink into the sunset. Over the rainbow and far, far away.

"Right, I'll get started." I quickly fished in my bag for my Nifty Notes quill. "First question-"

"I don't think so," Draco interrupted. "As an act of good faith and so I don't inform our manger of your deception, you will go first. Sing your little heart out, Miss Weasley and then we'll answer your stupid questions."

Ah…plan A not exactly successful. Must figure out plan B…

A sudden sound of a heated scuffle could be clearly heard through the closed door.

"Quick, let me through!" shouted a high, girly voice. "It's urgent."

All went quiet before a pair of rounded boobs, followed several seconds later by a slim body, came bursting through the door. Unmistakably Lola.

"Lola!" I exclaimed, walking quickly towards her and blocking her view of the band. "What's going on?" Her face, though covered in five inches of make-up, carried a new addition in the form of a shiny black eye. Her head of blonde hair also had a suspicious bald spot at the back.

"Ginner," she breathed, "its Hermione…she's in hospital. Ron sent me to fetch you."

No, no, no…Please let her be ok. I'll dance naked on the top of Big Ben, I'll bear Malfoy's bratty children…I'll, I'll spend an afternoon listening to Percy, just let her be ok.

My voice shook as I demanded, "What happened?"

"Hi boys!" Lola cooed, winking past my shoulder.

"Lola!"

Still gazing unashamedly at the bare torso of Rench, she said, "Sorry. It's nothing serious. They are just keeping her in to monitor her mental state. About time if you ask me! Anyway you should get going."

Hermione was far more important than a stupid interview with the Brat King, a nearly-naked guy, a flower arranger and Neville. I grabbed my bag off the floor and turned to the Band or more accurately, Draco.

"I have to go." I really do have a flair for the obvious. "It looks like I'll be sacked after all."

Draco, still slouched lazily down, let out a considering hum. "No you won't," he said evenly. "You'll go to see Granger in her belated straightjacket. Creepy here will do the interview and you my dear; will owe me a very big favour."

Not knowing whether to thank him or hit him, I attempted to smile, muttered a curt goodbye and walked through the door, leaving Lola behind.

As I headed for the nearest floo stop, I was left wondering just what his favour might be.


	6. The Wicked Witch vs Glinda

**Chapter Six – Part One**

**The Wicked Witch Vs Glinda**

"Ron, will you shut up!" Hermione shouted shrilly, cutting off my brother's mumbled explanation of the day's events. "If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you could wait outside. I'd like to talk to Ginny…alone."

With a hurt puppy expression firmly in place, Ron walked out of the hospital room. Ten minutes ago, I had arrived in a flurry of panic, pinning passing nurses to the wall for information, leaving a path of destruction and knowing mutterings of 'time of the month' in my wake. Hurtling onto the seventh floor and down the corridor to the small room at the end, I had found Hermione sitting cross-legged on the bed with my brother clucking beside her like an old mother hen. Her hair, usually a popular tourist spot for nesting pigeons, was in a state of complete disarray with several false nail gripping for dear life in her fringe. Her arms had been lovingly decorated with long scratches and her mouth was twice the size as usual, which, when talking about Hermione was pretty damn huge. My brother meanwhile had been wearing a look often worn by those greedy blighters who have a packet of biscuits in one hand and a bag of half-eaten sweets in the other. He had refused to look Hermione in the eye. When attempting to refill her glass, he had tripped over my foot, soaked the bed and sent the jug crashing spectacularly to the floor.

I never knew ears could turn such a vibrant shade of red.

"Thank God! He's gone!" Hermione muttered, stretching out and standing up. I quickly put my hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down.

"Not a good idea. I don't fancy giving you the kiss of life right now. I mean, I would normally, because lets face it I'm a giver, but I forgot to brush my teeth this morning…Well, I could give it a try I suppose…pucker up!"

Sitting grumpily back down, Hermione responded, "I'm not dying Ginny. In fact I've never felt better! That insane doctor, Mr McDouble Chin or whatever his name is, insisted that I stay in this prison overnight! It's absolutely insane…keeping a perfectly healthy person in _this place_. I'm in the right mind to sue! I bet its all part of some scientific experiment- seeing how long a person can stay normal in here before turning into a tweed wearing zombie addicted to cough drops and wearing gowns with the bottoms cut out. You know I'm right."

Discreetly looking out the 'help' button, I nodded and smiled (always a safe bet when dealing with loonies.)

"Say Hermione," I asked gently, "they didn't happen to give you any drugs, did they?"

Hermione picked up a mug and waved it around in the air. "A tiny sedative, they said to calm me down or something. It hasn't worked yetttt…."

With my cat-like reflexes I caught Hermione's snoozing head and lowered her on the mattress. Well _really_! I thought dismally as I picked a red fingernail from her hair. That was rather anti-climatic. I expected a blow-by-blow account at the very least. Something like, '_Lola's eyes had a sliver of madness in them, a shine of no-good malice. The devil lived in her, deep down, past the silicon and in the black, black heart! She was perched like a wild beast, ready to pounce…Grrrr! She growled as she leapt over the bar stools and collided with the innocent maid Hermione, who in turn, spun round and judo-kicked her into a bloody, beaten, resembling a battered plum, thing…' _

But no, I got a snoring best friend. No gossip, no intrigue and no reasonably priced merchandise of the big match. Perhaps I should have dragged Lola away from suckling on band-man-flesh and instigated a re-match. _(…and in the red corner we have Lola, weighing just over 50 pounds and just what is that deadly weapon she is storing in her t-shirt?_) Purely in the pursuit of knowledge, you understand.

Ron's head popped nervously around the door. "I just brought you this, darling…" He dared to look at Hermione and finding her fast asleep, smiled with relief before plonking himself down next to me. Joy.

"You brought her a bag of grapes?" I asked incredulously, eyeing up the huge, multi-coloured bunch in his hand.

He shrugged and replied, "Yeah, what's wrong with that?"

I give you my brother, ever the clueless chump… (_Seriously, I'm giving him to you…last chance…sold to the guy with a whip and moustache) _

"Don't you think an apology would be more apt?" I said disapprovingly. "Or how about a public thrashing of your traitorous, spotty arse? I mean, how could you Ron? Inviting both Hermione and Lola to the pub at the same time? That's bordering on moronic even for _you_."

"Hey!"

"Did you expect them to become boyfriend-sharing buddies over a pint of bitter or something?"

Ron peered miserably at his shoes. "Well, I thought we could come to some kind of arrangement."

Arrangement? What does that mean? Surely not the kind of 'arrangement' watched by Percy late on a Friday night? Good Lord, no…Must. Remove. Mental. Images.

I slammed my fist into my brother's filthy, depraved 'we-are-so-NOT-related' knee and hissed, "Ronald Weasley! That's disgusting! Just wait till I tell mum!"

After staring at me blankly for a few seconds, Ron's eyes finally widened. "You think I meant…that! And people say I've got a dirty mind… tut, tut, little sister."

"You have!" I said more quietly, not wanting to wake up Hermione from whatever dream she was having, which knowing her would involve a romantic scene in an abandoned library with Gilderoy Lockhart in a ripped shirt, tight trousers and waving a 100 question exam paper.

"Remember when I found your, erm, well worn copy of 'Wobbly Witch Bits' under the bed? Now you can't tell me that was for 'educational' purposes only…"

A scowl appeared on Ron's red face and he huffed, "I liked the articles – they were full of journalistic merit. Not like some of the crap written nowadays. Talking of which, how was your day?"

_Murder is a sin. Murder is very naughty…_

"Same old, same old. The usual humiliation, degradation and drunken marriage proposals, but its all part of my glamorous lifestyle as a- "I cast a sharp look over my brother. "Are you even listening?"

Ron slowly averted his eyes away from the patient. "Sorry sis, I was only being polite. I don't actually want to know."

How utterly charming.

"By the way," Ron went on, "Harry's outside. Wants to talk to you privately for some reason. You're not seeing him again, are you?" A disapproving frown appeared, making Ron look like my Great Aunt Sheba, old, crotchety and very much like someone I'd want to place in a maximum security prison, guarded by man-eating huskies and devil worshipping dwarves.

"He left me, remember?" I pointed out with a scowl. "I was the one whose heart was smushed into a milkshake of misery."

Ron frowned, this time with 20 per cent more brood. "Well, you probably provoked him. Didn't darn his socks properly or smile enough, I don't know, it could have been anything. Living with you can be hell, take it from an expert."

Brothers have a habit of showing their love in the worst possible way. Age five, darling ronniekins (along with his bed wetting problem) made me eat live earthworms. Age fourteen, he told the whole world/Hogwarts about my crush on Remus Lupin. For the record – I did NOT used to make fluffy, wolf-shaped finger puppets and any found, even with the initials GW 4 RL on them, have most certainly been planted by others. Honestly.

"Ok then, I better go seduce hapless Harry with my wily femme fatale charms," I said in Scarlet Woman mode. "Tell me Ron; are my boobs too pointy in this top?"

It can be highly amusing watching your closet relative being scared for life…

"Good God Woman! Get your fat arse out!"

1

1

1

"As I exited Hermione's room of drug fuelled rest, it occurred to me that Harry was outside. I know what you're thinking, didn't you know that already? Didn't your less-attractive and dim brother just say exactly that! Ok, yes, the answer would be. But the fact that I would meet the love of my life in an outfit snubbed by lap dancers for being too smutty, had only just begun to sink in. What would he think of me? Harry, who was always so (relatively) normal and well dressed?

Harry, who was sat on a nearby chair, wearing a priest's robe and a dog collar…wait just one almighty minute…

"Father Potter," I said soberly, walking up to him. "Forgive me for I have sinned. It has been forever since my last confession."

"Two Hail Mary's and all will be forgotten," Harry spoke with a lopsided grin as he pulled a finger through his collar.

"Prayers or cocktails?" I asked, playing along.

Harry stood up and bowed. "Right now, I'd take a very big drink. How about I treat you to a delicious meal of mouth-watering culinary prowess?"

"You mean the cafeteria, don't you?" I asked, laughing.

Father Potter held out his arm like a gentleman. "I sure do, honey. Lumpy custard is on me."

I took his arm and off we went. Just a normal, everyday vicar and his stripping, ex-girlfriend…


End file.
